


we'll cross this bridge when we get to it

by qthulhu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Body Horror, Churches & Cathedrals, Deaf Clint Barton, Gore, Hospitals, Infinity Gems, Memory Loss, Monsters, No Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-snap, Psychological Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weird Biology, inspired by Silent Hill, some elements might be added eventually tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthulhu/pseuds/qthulhu
Summary: “I found a possible location. The energy signature is remarkably similar. It seems to be contained to one borough.”“Brooklyn? Queens?”“It's not in New York.”“Where?”“West Virginia.”-------------------------------In which the heroes remaining after the battle find a lead on the Infinity Stones, but it’s nothing they could’ve been prepared for.





	1. Chapter 1

_1._

Raindrops batter the glass. Streaks and streaks of water lines burst in every direction, trailing from the tip of the concealed aircraft to the sleek tail. The patter sounds like a thousand snare drums, crescendoing as they peeter in and out of saturated clouds.

Relying entirely on FRIDAY's coordinates, Rhodey's been flying sans visuals - which sucks considering they don’t have any ground assistance - since he’d dipped into the scud a couple minutes ago. Not that there's much to look out for. Most commercial air buses are grounded - half of the world is gone, so the nonessentials are shut down while the death toll is tallied. Even if they weren't, how many flights went to the middle of nowhere, West Virginia on a Wednesday afternoon? All the major ports collect goods and distribute them amongst the remaining population.

Navigation beeps twice, and Rhodey glances down. The ship's little white dot hovers a centimeter away from their destination.

Tony leans to look at the screen, steadying himself with one hand on Rhodey's right thigh. His hands are too thin and too pale, like dying branches left out in the sun for too long without a leaf to shield them. A heart monitor hangs loosely on his wrist. His hold is so light, had Rhodey not been looking down, he would’ve mistaken it for a gnat.

“How the hell are we supposed to land if I can't see the ground?” Rhodey asks. Nightmare scenarios play in his head: cannons pointed at the belly of the ship and splitting it wide open with them all spilling to the ground in a gory confetti, the barrel of a gun firm and unyielding against his temple as he’s forced to watch those around him settle in the dirt.

“Ballpark it ‘til we're closer. The ship can take a little off roading.”

“I'm not worried about crashing. I'm worried about an ambush, Tony.”

Tony leans back in his chair, fidgets with the face of the _beep-beep_ ing monitor, “if he knew we were coming, he'd take us out before we could get this close.” _He'd probably drop the fucking moon on their heads just because he can._

“Fuck it,” Rhodey mumbles. He pulls the radio from the hook, holds one of the buttons on its side, and announces over the speakers, _“we're about five minutes out. I'm gonna land her just outside of the field. Everybody stay in their seats until I give the order.”_

Nails pitter-patter into cockpit. Rocket scampers between their armchairs. He’s twitchy like a caged animal. On high alert, but focused. Determined.

“All hands and tails inside the vehicle, Ranger Rick,” Tony says, swiveling a hair to counter clockwise. “You heard the man.”

“I'm getting antsy back there. Lemme strap in. Rhodes can copilot if he wants,” Rocket says, waving at the controls. “Come on, I'm the best pilot on board! I've flown through thicker fogs in the Keystone Quadrant.”

Rhodey catches Tony's eye, who raises a brow. He pointedly widens his eyes backward and nods at Tony. Tony scoffs. Rhodey repeats the motion again with more force. The two stare at each other in silence for a beat, then Tony sighs and stands.

“Yes!” Rocket jeers as he scrambles into the chair. Tony points a finger as he steps out of the room

“You owe me.”

“Beer on me when this is over,” Rhodes waves at him. Rocket cracks his knuckles and magnifies the digital map. “Check in with Banner.”

“Whatever you say, honeybear,” Tony mutters. The raccoon gestures animatedly when he steps into the threshold of the main cabin.

The team sits in rows along the walls: Nebula on the starboard, her legs spread along the fore-facing edge of the bench; Thor leaning on his knees by his elbows; and Bruce, thumbing the cushion's seams and ripping threads out. He blinks and smiles up at Tony. Romanoff eyes Nebula from the port; Clint keeps his hands in two of the dozens of pockets on his vest; Scott just looks happy to be here; and Steve stares blankly out one of the windows. There's just a little bit of empty space at the end of both benches.

Tony hobbles to the starboard bench and plops on the very end next to Bruce. The craft trembles and tilts forward, nearly flinging him from the cushion. Bruce slaps his hand over Tony's chest. Tony latches onto his arm until the turbulence clears.

“Give me your wrist,” Bruce instructs. He reads the vitals off Tony's screen, checks his pupils a couple of times. His condition is no worse than it was at takeoff. “I wish you would've rested a couple more weeks. A little more muscle density would've done you some good.”

“I'm fit as a fiddle, doc. Promise.”

Nebula's head inches a fraction of a degree in their direction. Her lips quiver at the corners, daring to comment where she’s not sure it’s earned. The tone of Tony’s voice is one too familiar, breathy and light, laced with humor and sarcastic bravado to mask the pain just below the surface. It’s the tone he adapted after going weeks with a nearly empty belly. A deflection.

“Are we there?” Thor asks. The glass is painted by unbroken warm grey strokes of clouds so thick not even the sun penetrates them. Romanoff draws a circle on the glass with her knuckle.

“I don’t see anything,” she observes. They have to be close, though. They've been flying for a little over an hour, and ETA puts them landing at 3. Her watch blinks 2:58.

“Almost. R-Squared are trying to find a good landing spot,” Tony says. “Didn't plan on the weather shitting out on us.”

“Hmph,” Thor huffs.

“You try clearing the skies, Point Break?”

“I can't.”

“Then quit sulking. Jeez, you're like a kid on his way to Disneyland,” Tony mutters. Steve sighs something along the lines of ‘please take this seriously’ that he elects to ignore. “Anyway, Rhodey thinks this is a trap, so they have to land a little out of the way.”

“No shit,” Clint says.

The cabin lurches again. Tony's lunch drops out the bottom of his stomach. Again, he clings to Bruce, though the other is less prepared and clings to the god to remain upright. All the lights flash off simultaneously, throwing the cabin in darkness. A hand clutches his in a death grip.

“What did you do?” Rhodey shouts.

“ _Nothing!_ We're just dropping out of the freaking sky!” Rocket snaps back.

“That doesn't sound great!” Bruce yells.

“Grab onto as many people as you can!” Steve instructs. “Nebula, help Rhodes and Rocket!”

Nebula launches toward the bickering pilots as Thor extends a sparking arm for Clint and Romanoff. Steve clicks his belt and wraps a hand around Tony's bicep, and the other around Scott's. The pressure in the cabin quickly rises, filling their ears until they pop. Even though they’re freefalling out of the scud and into what should be daylight, it remains dark. At least the rain has stopped. They're going to crash before they even have a chance to attack.

Well, fuck.

“Lang, grab Barton,” Tony says. The power might be out in the main cabin, but the panel in the back glows blue, dimly illuminating their faces. “Rogers, with me.”

Steve waits until Scott is secure to release him. Tony hobbles to the stern one step at a time, Steve clinging to every available surface they pass to prevent them from falling. He lays his palm on the scanner twice, but he's shaking too bad for a good read. Steve shifts closer.

“What are we doing?” he asks, leaning close enough to Tony's ear that he doesn't have to yell. His lips almost brush against Tony's unkempt beard. Tony shudders.

“Activating the emergency pod. Hold me steady,” Tony mouths back. Steve wraps an arm around Tony's shoulders and cradles his wrist with the other. After a failed attempt, the door slides open and a drop of light spills onto the blue carpet.

“Everyone, get in!” Steve yells. Thor leads the pack, shuffling first Romanoff, then Clint, Bruce, and Scott inside the compartment. His eyes aglow, he sends electricity from his fingertips for the rest.

“Nebula, Rhodey, Rocket!” Tony calls.

Nebula drags Rhodes by the collar, Rocket clinging to her back. The second they’re in, Thor slams the door shut. It’s cramped, air hot and heavy and elbows colliding with ribs and knees knocking like a ball pendulum. Only a ring of lights by their feet to see, Tony feels blindly around for the release switch.

“Hey, that's my butt!” Scott yelps.

“Anyone feel a lever?” Tony says, ignoring him. He touches the nearest wall, and brushes Lang’s ass again by accident, coming up empty.

“Is this it?” Nebula’s monotone replies. An audible click gives them a five second warning before they’re dumped unceremoniously to the earth.

 

\-----

 

Of course, the search team left some of the most capable fighters in house, just in case something happened to them. Pepper Potts, most familiar with Stark tech, holds the mantle at HQ. Responsibility always finds a way to fall into her hands. Just like with Stark Industries. Not that she minds, micromanagement comes as natural to her as breathing.

She nurses a steaming cup of coffee - a dash of cream and zero sugar - with both of her hands. The holograms of Okoye, Carol Danvers, and Valkyrie stand in a half circle in front of her, all glowing a faint shade of blue around the edges. Okoye’s transparent form drifts to the right, listening to the whispers of an unseen person. She responds in hushed isiXhosa. When she faces Pepper again, she clicks the roof of her mouth twice in consideration.

“What's the standard amount of time to pass until we go on a rescue mission?” Okoye asks.

“Not yet,” Carol says, a tad uncertain. The situation - the team - is foreign to her. The tales she’s heard from Nick imply they’re capable fighters, though. He was _very_ fond of them. “I'd guess. It's only been a few hours.”

“We'll know when it’s time,” Pepper answers. She takes a slow sip from the mug. _Hurry up, guys._

“You misunderstand me. I'm seeking _your_ counsel.”


	2. Chapter 2

_2._

As a month prior, they crash. Hard. Instead of the remnants of their loved ones dispersing into the wind, it’s shrapnel and loose birch leaves, dehydrated enough to crinkle and die at first contact. Dead leaf dust and dirt cling to Tony’s eyelashes. He blinks, rubs them away, and glances around, fearing the worst.

The bodies surrounding him remain still. Steve being the nearest, his face buried in the dirt. His mouth is shut. His eyes don’t even flutter. Tony rolls onto his side and dry heaves. The fog suffocates him. He shakes his head a couple of times, willing away the nightmarish image of death from his memory.

He blinks, and Steve’s in his face, mouthing imperceptibly quick. Alive, dirty but alive. His blue eyes squint and he snaps in front of Tony’s nose. Over his shoulder, the first stirrings amongst the heap occur.

“Come again?” Tony says, breathless.

“Can you stand?” Steve asks. Tony nods; Rogers, for some reason, intreprets this as a _no_ and attempts to help Tony to his feet He waves him off and wobbles into an upright position on his own, albeit as successfully as a drunken toddler taking their first steps. His ankle throbs in protest, and his balance isn’t great. He grunts as he limps away. The childishly knowing half-frown-half-thin-line Steve’s mouth forms when his lips fold in makes him want to deck him in the face. Tony steps away from the wreckage.

The first person Tony comes across is Bruce, whose hair is entirely greyish-brown now from the dirt. His suit is torn at the knees.

“Is everyone okay?” Bruce shouts. A fresh bruise begins to blossom on his right cheekbone, red and purple wine on a silk bed sheet. His voice is rough, perhaps from screaming so loud. He leans on his forearm and rubs his eye with one hand.

Thor stands beside him. Physically, he’s steady, but his golden-brown eye has popped out of the socket and left an empty hole in its place. The remaining eye glows up at the cloud, ignoring the tug on his boot from one Rocket. The sky crackles, and he leaps out of sight.

Clint and Nat stand next - equal parts holding each other up while their balance returns to equilibrium. Natasha’s hair sticks to the back of her neck in wet, be it by sweat or by blood, clumps; Clint’s face almost appears to be covered in war paint. He’s the most banged up of them all, half-crimson and purple, and not because of the costume he used to sport.

Then there’s Rhodey: his smart-legs automatically adjust his steps, so he walks without stumbling, but his face is tight and searching. Oddly, Lang seems the least troubled by the intense vertical drop. He rises and rubs the back of his head.

The last up is Nebula. Her mechanical arm is torn midway at the forearm, wires hanging like severed blood vessels and sparking at random intervals. Rhodes reaches for her shoulder and elbow as she passes, but she shrugs him off in favor of surveying the crash site. Nebula’s elbow - singular - deep in twisted safety pod pieces, searching for her hand, and finding nothing but useless scrap.

The pod landed just off a cracked two-way road. The cement that isn’t broken by growing flora is covered by graffiti in various states of detail and color. Some tags have to be as fresh, maybe a week old. **ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST** extends from shoulder to shoulder in bold, red paint. Cartoonishly, there’s an outline of a white skull about a foot above the D. Most of the street art is otherwise less depressing - various names and quotes, pictures of faces and silhouettes worn away over the years.

A quarter of a mile away, Tony spies the smoking hunk of aircraft and Thor carelessly tossing debris out of his path until he yanks his axe from the rubble. The crash of metal pops the hearing right back into Tony’s ears.

“Shit,” Tony breathes, flinching. Thor glances back to the entourage and lifts another item from the ground. The disk spins right for Tony’s face. Steve catches it midair and dusts off the imperfections.

“You could say that again,” Rocket grumbles. He sends a pebble skittering over the graffiti with his foot. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells. “Thor, get back here!”

The god jogs back, several yards between each step. He barely meets Tony’s eyes as he mumbles, “sorry.”

“Since no one answered, I’m just going to assume you’re all hurt or dead,” Bruce sighs while still scrubbing at his face. He blinks and squints ahead. He spots the wreckage half a second later. “Crap.”

“How far are we from the target? Cause I don’t wanna walk the rest of the way,” Rocket asks. Nebula loudly releases her hold on one of the larger pieces from the pod. Tony’s eyes drop to his wrist; a crack splits the steady blue line tracking the rhythm of his heart and the rest of the display. He licks his thumb and rubs a smudge of dirt from the glass.

“It’s, uh, a mile that way,” Tony points at the now flaming vehicle. Rocket groans. “Bad news -”

“That was the _good news_?”

“-There aren’t any towns in any direction for at least twenty miles, and closest ones are probably abandoned by now.”

“So what do we do?” Clint asks. Natasha lowers him on the side of the road and squats. She holds his chin and inspects his wounds: most of the damage on his face are cuts and some bruising above his brow. He won’t meet her eyes.

“I see no reason for us to not continue our mission,” Thor says pragmatically. His jaw is strung tight, fists at his side. Stormbreaker digs a trembling line in the stone as he marches forward. “Thanos is close.”

“We are _not_ in any condition to face Thanos,” Bruce says, rounding on the god. He holds his hand out against his chest. Thor stops.

“If we can stand, we can _fight_ ,” Thor protests.

“Raise your hand if you’re hurt.” Bruce turns to the rest of the team.

Steve forcibly raises Tony’s wrist since the man himself lets both dangle at his waist. Tony scowls at him and yanks it out of his grasp, but leaves it up. Nebula reluctantly lifts her nub. Clint holds up two pink fingers, forehead propped on his other hand.

“Now put your hand down if you want to turn back,” Thor counters. None fall.

“Nobody wants to back off, Thor. This-this is tantamount to suicide,” Bruce replies. “It’s a trap. I can feel it. Something’s waiting for us there.”

“Yes. Thanos.”

“I think we should stick to the original plan,” Steve says. “We’re stranded with no way to get home. What do we have to lose?”

“Well, not _no_ way home. The failsafe should’ve kicked in when the ship went down. Pepper’ll send reinforcements to pick us up in 48 hours,” Tony chimes in.

“Thank you, Tony,” Bruce says with a dramatic wave.

“Cowards.”

“Stop bickering,” Nebula pinches her nose and rises from the grass. “If you’re so opposed to battle, we’ll split into groups. Some of us can wait for help, the rest will investigate the signal.”

“Great plan, Bluebell,” Tony praises.

“You two,” she points at Natasha and Clint, “should stay. You won’t bode well against my father, especially in your condition. You,” her finger lands on Rhodes, “you aren’t a terrible tactician. You’ll be useful.”

“Who died and made you leader?” Rocket scoffs.

“Gamora. Quill.” Rocket backs off.

“Tony and I can stay here,” Bruce volunteers. “Maybe we can find your hand.”

“I’ll make you a better one when we get home,” Tony offers. Her lips twitch at the corners. She mumbles a soft thank you under her breath, just for his ears.

“Rocket, will you stay?” Nebula asks. A pointless question, as he’s already copying down the coordinates from Tony onto the communicator and reattaching it to his belt. She sighs. “Of course not.”

After a last once over and some scrappy patchwork mechanically from Tony and medically from Natasha and Bruce, the team, save for Natasha, Clint, Tony, and Bruce, gathers in a circle.  

“If everyone’s good to go…” Steve looks around. Three pairs of eyes meet his, no signs of hesitation within them. “Alright.”

“If anything happens, you give us a call. Got it?” Tony shouts after Nebula. She nods.

Once their out of sight, Tony climbs back into what used to be the pod and begins cracking a section of the floor off with a piece of scrap he found in the road and tossing it to the street like useless Christmas wrapping paper, leaving the delicate machinery exposed. The air in the small compartment is stifling. Tony wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. The sleeves of his skin-tight black running suit are already rolled to his elbows, so he pulls the top off and ties it around his waist. He peels back the bundle of primary colored wires and carefully removes a small, glowing blue cylinder.

Meanwhile, Bruce hovers just outside, occasionally handing Tony tools from his emergency toolbox. He watches in mild curiosity, until Tony’s watch beeps twice in succession when he dusts his pants off and walks to Tony’s side. Tony twists the face around, his bpm spiking in the 160s.

“Sit with me for a sec, Tony,” Bruce pats the ground beside him.

Clint keeps his head low, between his knees, to counter the tinny shrieks deafening his left ear. He tries to pick out a clump of wax with his pinky in a desperate attempt to make some kind of difference, but it doesn’t, it can’t, his mind oscillates between too loud to think and too quiet to focus. He hasn’t left the shoulder of the road since sitting down.

Natasha leaves his side while the ebb and pull occupies his attention. She approaches Tony first.

“What’s that?”

“Vibranium battery,” Tony tosses it a couple inches in the air and catches it. “Plan D.”

“What happened to B and C?”

“A is Nebula’s plan plus Pep’s rescue team, B is Thor whipping up a storm in a fit of rage that's big enough to take out the East Coast and killing all of us including Thanos, C is hunkering down in the rubble over there and waiting Thanos out after he kills all our friends, D is a vibranium-fueled bomb.”

“I’m betting on B,” Clint says, his voice strained. “Are your guys’ ears still ringing? ‘Cause mine are.”

“Just a little,” Tony shrugs.

“My ear’s totally blown out.”

“That’s not great,” Bruce says. He squats beside the man and checks for obvious signs of injury.

“Left side.”

Natasha watches briefly, but returns to Stark when he accidentally kicks over the toolbox and knocks an absurd amount of screws to the dirt. She picks them up as Tony tinkers with the bright little glass tube containing enough power to knock out an entire city, and then some.

“Okay, done. One plasma blast, and it should at least knock Barney the Genocidal Dinosaur out,” Tony huffs between strained gasps. His watch keeps beeping, beckoning both of the unharmed people to his side. Bruce leads Clint to the steps of the pod and props him against them. It dawns him, hunched with his peers, that there’s someone unaccounted for in their Brady Bunch.

“Where’s Lang?” Tony says.

“He,” Bruce looks around, brows together in confusion. “He went with Steve, didn’t he?”

“Fuck.”

 

\-----

 

The first thing Scott notices is that none of the street lamps are on. They’re covered in cobwebs on the fancy curled tops, and a rusty brown colors the base of the otherwise forest green painted metal. Even weirder, all the windows of the buildings he passes are boarded up or shattered. It’s like the whole place hasn’t been touched in years, which is weird because they've only been post-apocalyptic for about twenty six days as far as he’s been told.

Scott squints. It’s hard to see anything through all the fog, but he wants to do some recon. An army wouldn’t notice a fly coming at them, after all. Cap’ll be thankful for his quick thinking.

Dust floats in the air, and he’s instantly grateful his Ant-Man suit has a mask so he doesn’t have to breathe it in. He steers his new ant-buddy Antabell through the massive single window of a drugstore.

“Giddyup!” he cries, lightly kicking her thorax. She veers in the direction of the shelved medicine. They fly a couple laps around the interior until Scott’s satisfied. His boots leave tiny footsteps as he marches across the counter toward the back area.

“Hello?” he calls out. Nada. Scott places both hands on his hips. Maybe he should’ve stayed with the team, he thinks.

The place is a pigsty. An orange pill bottle lays on its side an inch away and the counter is covered in white round pills. All the stuff on the shelves are either thrown to the grown, knocked over, or torn apart.

“I think we’re in the clear,” Scott tells the ant. He looks over his shoulder and jumps so far he almost stumbles off the edge. “Holy shit!”

A clear slug-slash-leech looking thing about the size of Scott’s normal sized thumb has Antabell’s abdomen in its mouth, swinging her around pathetically like a dog with a chew toy. Blue and purple veins decorate its back in stripes. A set of small, glassy black eyes follow his movements as he charges it.

“Let go of her!”

Scott kicks the creature by the mouth, but that only pisses it off. It clamps down harder. Even worse, his slime-slick boot clings to the countertop so he has to hop to get the next hit in and ends up almost getting his fist trapped between the leech-thing’s tiny teeth. Her abdomen pops like a grape. He grows to full size and squashes the slimy clear leech with his hand.

 

\-----

 

No one speaks, because no one has anything to say. They walk in silence, save for the scraping of boot on stone and Rocket’s occasional damning of every deity he can imagine, including the Norse ones.

Steve counts the painted stars to pass the time. He gets to the fifteen when they finally approach what looks to the city limits. The graffiti ends on the outskirts of the town behind a thick, white stripe of paint. In the fields beside the road stands a welcome sign, but the name has been carved away by some kind of blade.

Some vehicles remain upright on the road, dented and windows smashed, but most are flipped or completely flattened. This pattern continues well into the city; storefronts smashed, sidewalks destroyed. Newspapers float in the wind.

Worst of all, there’s ash here, gently falling from the featureless sky like winter’s first snow.  Rocket holds up a hand and catches a few pieces. His hackles stands up on instinct. He shakes his palm and rubs it on his jacket. Something feels off-key, as if every breath was in the key of D sharp, dancing on the edge of unnatural, stifling. The air is thick, humid and heavy and impossible to see past about a block.

Thor stops in the middle of the road. To the east stands an ornate, brick church that’s more stained glass than it is brick. He spies a shadow in the colors, shifting with him. He tilts his head; the shadow tilts too. He steps back; the shadow blurs. Against his better instinct, he keeps Stormbreaker at his side. Thor needs to be a leader, a team player. Tactically, running into battle with your position already compromised is dodgy.

“We’re being watched,” he says. By the time Steve’s figured out where Thor is staring, the shadow is gone.

“I don’t see anything,” Steve replies.

Nebula points at the most southwestern building: a school. The architecture feels familiar, possibly as old as Steve himself. The windows on the lower levels are boarded up, but the upper floors are clear, seemingly untouched by the disaster that laid waste.

“Rhodes and I will go there,” she says. “It’s large, and we will be able to cover ground the quickest.”

“And why is that?” Rocket asks.

“Most of you are human,” she says, melancholy tinting her words. “Your legs will tire. Ours won’t.”

“We will take that one,” Thor calls, pointing at the church. “Right, Rabbit?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll walk between the two and keep an eye out for any ambushes from the outside. If you run into anyone, radio it in. Don't engage. Stick with your buddy,” Steve says. “When you clear the building, move onto the next one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these next chapters are going to be longer, and split up by pov!! im sorry, im really taking my time with the set up here jdgshkdfg 
> 
> watch your health points, cause i'm comin for em


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no beta, we die like men

Rocket's gun weighs on his shoulder in a familiar and casual stance; his forefinger taps on the trigger's guard while the barrel points at a forty-five degree angle skyward, loose yet easily accessed when the moment calls. The calm, careless exterior masks a sharp, concerned interior stirred forth by the creaking metal surrounding them. Not to mention the hulking son of bitch waiting around any corner. 

 _Is it weird to kill your dead co-parent-slash-sister-figure's genocidal dad?_ _Probably not any weirder than blowing up your co-parent-slash-brother-figure's homicidal planetary dad._

His head swivels from passing building to building, taking in the grey specks drifting from the sky like a snow globe that got its snow from the streets of New York and the nameless abandoned businesses along the way, contrary to Thor's focused gait. The god treads without pause, eyes tight and about-facing; they don't have a very long way to go and the quicker they reach their destination, the quicker Thanos falls. He can feel Rocket's eyes trace the contours of his back like moths fluttering on a lampshade.

"Oh, a cafe!" Rocket chirps at the chipped red letters lining the windows, pointing with the barrel of his weapon. A wall of milky glass windows, condensed over from the coolness outdoors, and brick creates the foundation of the building. Adorable red awnings spread across the front, though some of them are starting to fray. He stops walking to mock-read the sign - the business hours - taped to the door. "Free asbestos with every donut."

"I'd imagine we've inhaled enough out here as is," Thor says without more than a passing glance at the place.

"Yeah, you're right."

Just a peek won't hurt, though. Rocket holsters his gun and cups his hands against the glass. It's a cute little diner covered in shades of beige, mint, and oaky brown. The cream (or pale green, he can't tell since the fog washes all color out of the scenery) booths are all unsurprisingly empty. There's a counter with neat, attached wooden stools and a cash register and steaming mug leaving brown imprints on a napkin at the furthest end, just in front of a sugar shaker. 

"Somebody's been here," Rocket murmurs against the glass. Thor stops. 

A bell on the door jingles when he pushes it open. The stench of coffee beans and grease clings to the booth cushions, wafting deliciously throughout the establishment. Thor places a hand on the seat.

"It's still warm," he notes as Rocket, climbing up on the tips of his toes, snags the mug and gulps half of the sweetened, black coffee. Thor raises a brow.

"What? Nobody else was drinking it." 

"Rabbit."

"Okay, okay," he yanks the walkie-talkie from his belt and presses the button on its side, wiping the coffee-mustache from his muzzle. He places the mug within the stained rings. It's not like Rocket wasn't going to eventually make the call. "Possible activity at the cafe on Bachman." 

" _On it. Headed your way now,_ " Roger’s voice dissonantly crackles from the small speaker. It fades into a low static, the fuzzy tones a quiet, electrical hum like the peaceful buzz of fan on a hot summer day. Rocket fiddles with the volume dial until the noise is quiet enough to be mistaken for a stray fly, then puts away the device. He smacks his lips as he triumphantly swallows the rest of the coffee.

Movement at the corner of Thor’s eye, quick but noteworthy in the shape and color - a bright **yellow** flash, like the swish of a regal, gaudy cape - darts behind the counter and into the small, concealed portion of the walk-in kitchen. The figure is skeletal, dark everywhere but the fabric over its shoulder and the pallor sheen on damp skin, and moving too fast to discern any facial features, like a long lost memory of marigolds and snakes.

 

> _Thor, pajama clad, tiptoes out of the castle’s gates with Loki's fist deep in his own. They pass Mother's sleeping quarters first, then through the throne room as they gallop down ornate marble steps. One heaving shove from the pair, and grandiose door opens._
> 
> _They bask in the early morning glow for a moment, then run into the flower field that greets the first kiss of sunlight. Barefoot and giggling, Loki drops into the flora to conceal himself, the faces wide enough to hide entire civilizations much less a slippery little reptile with the evasiveness of a jerboa. Each bloom dwarfs their boyish hands; at least twenty centimeters across and brimming with petals in shades of mustard and pale orange. Thor, flowers at his waist, covers his eyes and counts to ten - definitely not squinting through the cracks of his fingers as the pair agreed his back should face the field - while Loki settles in. When time runs out, Thor dashes into the thickest of the marigolds to find him. He runs in circles for hours, always close but never quite able to best his brother’s elaborate game of hide-and-seek._

Thor blinks, and he’s gone. 

The thought crosses his mind, to hope that the fool escaped in another treacherous illusion, perhaps masquerading his injuries and hidden amongst the bodies until Thanos passed on, however unlikely it may be.

Thor passes the register; his partner, on the other hand, takes a moment to fold the bills and change into one of his pant pockets, having failed to spy the figure or completely unbothered by it all together since the figure is neither tall nor broad (nor purple) enough to be their target, Thor can't tell. Rocket tugs open the drawer below the register. 

“This place is even messier than Quill’s room,” he mutters. He paws away a polaroid of a young girl and loose pennies to get at the rest of the loot: a kitchen knife, a town map, and a partially-used roll of silver duct tape, packing it in his supply belt with the rest of his miscellaneous tools. _Score!_

Thor peeks his head behind the wall; the kitchen is empty, only a pot of flat, muddied water and sink overflowing with grimy dishes to speak of. If a person was here, they neglected to clean up after themselves. No one in sight, he squats below the metal, wheeled countertops, checking for retreating footsteps or billowing cloaks. Nothing but a fine layer of dirt. Scuffling from behind, Rocket greedily digging for more in the drawers, and Thor throws a withering look his way.

“Is it wise to rob a place that we know is inhabited?” he asks, still level with the ground. He claps his hands clean while Rocket shamelessly shines the blade of his new knife with a grey hand towel.

“Maybe, maybe not. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it,” Rocket winks. “It usually pays off in the long run.”

The front bells ring. Thor senses the smile of the exiting figure more than he sees it; cold, taunting as a serpent dangling a golden apple in front of his starving lips. His head turns just fast enough to catch the slam of the cafe’s front door over Rocket’s shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” Rocket turns around. “Huh. Must’ve been the wind.”

“Come on, Rabbit!” Thor nearly topples the raccoon in his haste out the door.

Outside is distinctly other than Thor recalls; while it was not what one would describe as a shining city, the structures before them are in irreversible disrepair, sections peeling, dissolving toward the suddenly tumultuous clouds overhead and leaving only skeletons of mortar and steel encrusted with rust. Blood and rot cover the sidewalk. The flakes in the air remain suspended, as if time itself stopped breathing at the sight. Rocket’s radio screeches the instant he steps foot on the pavement. He fumbles, and then spots the angry blackhole swirling above.

“ _What in the-_ ” 

“Which way did it go?” Thor asks, winding up Stormbreaker for a jump, when the yellow cape slaps a stop sign at the corner of the street. He leaps toward it and his fingers just miss the cloth by a hair, sending a wave of gravel over the asphalt when he lands. Rocket chases not far behind, gun drawn and firing low as he aims to incapacitate.

The radio spikes into a high-pitched wail the moment a hand slaps a car about thirty meters away and disappears behind the vehicle before either can so much as take a step. Thor crushes its roof under his boot - no trace of the figure left behind.

 

\-----

 

Scott rubs his thumb over the pads of his first and middle fingers, grimacing at the slimy texture. The goo is like colorless jelly, thick and wet and the kind of nauseating lumpy that occurs several weeks after the expiry date passes. Killing insects makes him uncomfortable, like rolling a cat on its back and dropping a bucket of water over its head: unnecessary, cruel. He swallows. 

A sharp pinch, a pebble or shard of glass, knicks Scott's middle finger. The helmet unlatches and he squints at the smear of greenish-grey hemolymph on his glove. 

“Ow,” he mumbles to no one in particular. 

Upon closer inspection, a sliver of aquamarine approximately the size and shape of a teardrop, or an earring's jewel, sticks out of his flesh. All the colors in the room, the shades of blue at least, pour into the glittery depths. It's captivating.

He plucks the splinter between his forefinger and thumb, then grabs a plastic pill baggie from behind the counter and drops it inside. It folds neatly into his breast pocket. _For safekeeping._  

As for Antabelle, Scott brushes her little body into a tissue and throws it in a white, plastic bin beneath the counter.

He's no entomologist, but Scott's done some rudimentary research since Cassie bullied him for knowing next to _nothing_ about creepy crawlies despite being called the Ant-Man (which he could've explained was just a name, but that's not as fun), and he's never seen anything like that before. It's like a slug, leech, and spun glass caterpillar were all thrown in a blender and that monstrosity with teeth, bulbs, and feelers crawled out. He feels bad for killing it. Hank would've thought it was cool. The thought tightens his heart. 

Anyway, the crystal in its guts piques a special kind of interest. So Scott's secondary mission is to capture one of those sleeches - a portmanteau of slug-leeches, to make his discovery legitimate - so Pym can get a closer look when everything's okay.

With Antabelle gone, his quickest form of transportation is full-scale-human sprinting, leaving him to vault over the counter where there _isn't_ a fresh wet spot. The soles of his boots loudly thud when they hit the tiles. So much for stealthy recon. 

Looming around the back of the shop nets pill bottles and a pair of smashed wire glasses that curiously bend perpendicular to the lenses at the temple, pointing directly outward, that sit atop a suspicious ruddy stained coat. No other insects, though. Scott casually leafs through a notepad of prescriptions like a stack of bills, stirring dust into the air, and sighs. 

The back of the pharmacy is just rows of medicine, a small sink for employees to wash their hands, and a door along the far wall for deliveries. Most of the medicine is undisturbed. Scott picks one up and rubs the fuzzy grey off the label - _lorazepam_ \- and replaces it. Frustratingly, there's not a single disturbance in the visible patches of grime. 

WWSD - What would a sleech do? Scott scans the area again, and his eyes settle on the damp, dark space below the sink.

A furious clap, thunder rolling like an orchestral applause, suddenly startles him. Scott, squatting his head in the crevice to better see the unlit corners, jolts. His head snaps up and right into the porcelain for the second ear-splitting crack of the afternoon. He groans.

Nothing outside's changed.

Scott replaces his helmet.

"Did anyone else hear that?" he asks over the coms.

Static. Scott taps the ear shell twice and tries again.

" _Lang?_ "

"Hey, Iron Man," Scott says. He clears his throat. "Stark."

There's a scuffle over the speaker, like cloth rubbing a microphone, and muffled curses.

" _Where are you?_ " Black Widow - Romanoff asks. " _What did you hear?"_

"Thunder. Uh, I'm in a drug store. Big glass windows, you can't miss it," he glances outside. "It's across the street from a burger joint."

" _Is there anyone else nearby?_ "

"Not that I can see."

" _Stay right there, we're coming._ "

 

\-----

 

Nebula crawls in through a gap in the window. She folds like a professional gymnast, narrowly sliding between the wood. Rhodes watches, the helmet part of his suit flipped open, with a curious frown on his face. When he doesn’t follow, she looks at him. Her thigh rests on the frame with her boot dangling over yellowing grass and the other leg lies flat on linoleum floor. 

“The door would draw more attention,” she explains. “This is quieter. And faster.”

“Checks out,” Rhodes says. He gestures down at the clunky metal with his eyes. The War Machine suit isn't exactly built for stealth. “But I can’t do that.”

Nebula sighs.

“I’ll open the doors.”

She tucks into the building, stepping around discarded bandages and what looks to be animal bones, and approaches a pair of double doors with a  wire coat rack shoved between the handles, jammed presumably to keep the doors in place. Ineffective, since the pole is weak and easily bent. She removes it. 

The walls of the vestibule are covered in dark, burgundy splatters. A decaying corpse lies on one of the benches, stomach torn open so all the rotting organs spill onto the floor. The stench would be unbearable if her nose were still organic. Maggots squirm in the open cavity. Nebula turns up her nose and steps around the mess. She pushes the doors with as much force as she can muster with one functioning hand, the live, dangling wires off the other, the open air igniting the steady thrum of her nerves. 

Rhodes whistles at the sight. Curious; she expected some retching.

“Talk about a bad omen,” he comments. Rhodes’s hand hovers over his earpiece. “Maybe we should get Steve.”

“This body is old. Thanos would never leave a mess like this,” she says matter-of-factly. “Whatever killed it has probably left by now.”

Just to be safe, he nods the mask back over his face. 

“Let's split up. We'll cover more ground that way,” Nebula suggests.

“Hell no. Have you seen any horror movies?” Rhodes scans the lobby. “Thanos'll pick us off one by one, and it does _not_ end well for the black guy. Especially not the disabled black guy.”

“I have never seen a movie,” Nebula deadpans so neatly he almost mistakes it for a joke. 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Stark reacted the same way.”

They wander to the opposite sides of the room. Nebula squats low to check under waiting chairs. Dust covers the floors, then her knees and her palm. Some broken pieces of the ceiling have been kicked underneath the chairs. 

The only item of interest is an unmarked red backpack tugged beneath a table. It is impossible to tell if the fabric was made that color or originally a lighter color later stained. The zipper heads appear undamaged, though missing the little piece to pull it open. When she holds it against her chest via her forearm, it’s too difficult to get a proper hold on the empty ring due to the angle. She struggles for a moment. It might contain useful supplies, she decides. Defeated, she tosses it on a table.

“Find anything?” Rhodes calls from behind the reception desk. 

“Nothing relevant to the mission,” she says. Nebula holds up the backpack. “But there was this.”

Rhodes takes it.

“If it's got some tools, maybe we can do something about your arm.”

As he fumbles with the busted zipper, Nebula ducks into the archway separating the lobby and the nurse's office. 

No movement. It's safe enough.

The frayed curtains between the bed and the office leave little to the imagination; the coppery, bitter stench, not unlike the vestibule, and silhouettes in the grime tell enough. She pulls it back and the metallic rings screech.

A body lays at her feet. It's a woman this time, and she's somewhat fresher, lacking maggots and with minimal signs of decay. Her arm ends at the bicep, the edges rough with a bone peeking just out of the flesh. The other is covered in crescents, teeth imprints, and bruising. Her nose and a significant portion of her cheeks have been bitten clean off, exposing her gums. 

Death is familiar, almost a friend or begrudging ally after years of nothing but destruction. Nebula's killed an uncountable amount of people, and witnessed twice the amount since conception, blood and tears as natural as rainfall. It’s easy to tell that, when it came, death was a mercy for this girl.

Nebula drops the curtain.

Fingers curl around her shoulder. Acting on instinct, Nebula twists around and raises her good arm to strike.

“Whoa, whoa! Chill,” Rhodes sans suit says. “I found a wrench and a switchblade in your bag. If you want, we can clean that up.”

He gestures at the hanging wires.

They sit on the moderately clean bed, Rhodes carefully breathing through his mouth while the stench wafts. The scissors on the switchblade snip audibly. Nebula flinches infinitesimally, every wire snap aching like a tendon being clipped from her body. Her eyes wander around the room to the other curtain, presumably concealing another corpse, though she doesn't care to check.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Unimaginably,” Nebula says. Her voice doesn't betray the pain. Rhodes releases the wire in his fingers. “I've experienced worse. They'll only get in the way.”

“You're taking ‘unimaginable pain’ pretty well,” he notes.

“I mean unimaginable _to you_.”

“Is it something like your nerves being dipped in acid and shoved into a faulty electrical socket?”

Nebula’s dark eyes flicker to Rhodes's. She surveys his form; out of the suit, he’s smaller, leaner, muscles more subtle than the god and the genetically enhanced soldier they ventured with. Granted, the suit weighs several tons, and the stark difference might play a factor in her perception. Steel frames contain his jean-clad legs like a secondary pant. Leg braces. This is what he meant by disabled.

“Is that what you felt?”

“At first,” he admits. “It's almost like static now.”

“What happened?” 

“Negotiations over a treaty went to a dark place. I got shot mid-air, right in the spine. Lost control of my legs,” he says quietly. Nebula’s mechanical arm hangs limply in his hands, almost entirely tidied up. “Tony designed these braces so I could walk again.”

“Who shot you?”

“It was an accident.”

“Who?” she persists.

“A friend. He's gone now.”

“Can we save him?” she asks. 

“I don't know. He had one of the stones in his head. They took him to Wakanda to try to remove it, but the scientist in charge couldn't finish in time. When Thanos took the stone, it killed him.”

“I don't understand,” Nebula says reluctantly. “Most life forms would be incinerated after prolonged, direct contact with a stone.”

“They put the stone and one of Tony's AI in an android, and Vision popped out,” Rhodes explains. “Last ditch attempt at saving the Earth.”

“Hm,” Nebula grunts. Rhodes clips the last wire. Nebula relaxes her muscles, the pain plateauing to a familiar, dull hum. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Give me the blade,” Nebula holds out her hand. With the extraneous machinery gone, she shoves the switchblade in the gaping hole. Her bolts adapt, integrating the weapon with her circuitry. Thanos may have been a cruel father, but he sculpted all his weapons with utility in mind. She flicks the blade twice. 

“Okay, now that's cool.”

“You should call the others,” she says. “The creature is probably still within the city, if not with us in here.”

Rhodes glances around the room and nods, stepping back into the metal shell. The helmet closes over his face.

“Hey, FRI. Call Rogers,” he says. Instead of FRIDAY's pleasant monotone, an explosion of static fills Rhodey's ears, thick and heavy like rolled steel wool dipped in tar. His hands uselessly cup his ears. 

Dry gasps erupt from the paper-thin veil a few feet away; sudden, like a March gust, and startlingly loud after their quiet exchange. Nebula twirls in its direction with her knife arm raised to eye level.

“Hello?” Rhodes calls. He can't hear a fucking thing over the screeching in his ear. “ _Radio off_.”

The heaving speeds up to a short, shallow spasm of breath, almost like a hound sniffing out prey just before a chase. He raises a hand at the noise. Tucked behind a paper-thin veil illuminated by flickering overhead bulbs, Nebula spies a heap curled on the bed; it shifts minimally, almost vibrating as it breathes.

“Are you hurt?” Rhodes tries again.

The figure unfurls like a waking bud in the spring; one limb touches the floor, another shoves a rolling tray, one grasps the padding of the bed as it rises. A hand extends to the curtain and pulls it out of the way.

 

\-----

 

Miss Potts is surprisingly cool, given her outwardly mousy and otherwise unassuming appearance, but Okoye supposes one must be if they're to manage a force as chaotic as Anthony Stark. It's a valuable trait for any leader - though her cheeks flush, either from the freshly-popped bottle of wine or anguish. Or it may just be a trick of the holograms.

"If they're after the same target, they should come across her," Danvers says. "Are you certain she came here?"

"Shuri left nothing to go off. It is my only guess. She'd never shirk her responsibility for anything but her family, and if there was an energy spike as you say, I'm certain she found it," Okoye swipes at the band on her wrist. "I am sending the coordinates from her wristwatch now."

"Miss Potts, these coordinates are about the same distance away from the source as the team's last-known location," FRIDAY observes. She zooms in on and highlights the two points.

"So we should assume there's a device disrupting Terra-made tech in about a thirty mile radius?" Danvers asks.

"Thor took one of our ships," Valkyrie shakes her head. "It'll probably affect _anything_ we bring with us."

"Oh, well, we don't need tech."

Valkyrie smirks.

"Back to the matter at hand, a week is more than enough time to be concerned," Pepper notes. "If you can spare a team, you should go."

Neither Valkyrie nor Carol volunteer to assist; it shouldn't hurt, knowing both women have prior obligations to their people, but Okoye can't shake the oily helplessness. She cannot, _will not_ lose another loved one. She drops into Shuri's favored wheeled stool. 

"I promise we'll join you in," Pepper's eyes flicker sideways. "Forty two hours." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos make the baby happy

**Author's Note:**

> thank u [leia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittyspacedads) and [ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandbaby) for proofreading uwu


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